by Becky Citra
“I’m terrible,” Grace says. “I can only go in one direction and my leg gets tired really fast. But I love it.”
We sit quietly for a moment.
Then I ask, “Forty-three pies?”
“They’re for the logging camps. Aunty Eve makes pies for them every week.” Grace groans. “Forty-three! It’s gonna take all day!”
She slumps back into the couch. “Pie Day. It’s a fate worse than death. And no roller-skating! Aunty Eve is trying to torture me. I knew it! I should have planted those stupid beans!”
• • • • •
When I get back to the hotel, I change into my bathing suit and go to the pool. I practice my tuck turns for a while, but some guests who are soaking in the shallow end glare at me. I guess it’s because I’m making little waves, and people come to this pool to relax.
And heal.
That makes me think of Mom, but that makes me feel sad so I decide to think about something else instead.
I float on my back and think about pies.
I’ve never made a pie, but it can’t be all that hard.
By the time the man comes to tell everyone that the pool is closed for the night, I’ve made up my mind.
Fifteen minutes later, I crawl into bed beside Mom.
“You smell like a swimming pool,” she murmurs, half asleep.
Mom’s been getting up early in the mornings to help Daphne with the breakfast crowd. “Will you wake me up when you go to the café?” I say.
“Mmmm,” Mom says. “Why?”
I wriggle deeper into the blankets. “It’s Pie Day tomorrow,” I say. “I don’t want to be late.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mom and I sleep in. The Top Notch is humming by the time we get there, almost all the tables filled with loggers and sleepy tourists.
Mom pours her own coffee and we sit at a table in the corner.
“Morning, Sunshine,” Daphne says to me as she bustles past with two plates of eggs and bacon. “Fred’s put his strawberry pancakes on special today. Buttermilk. Plenty of whipped cream.”
They sound yummy, but I’m in a hurry. “Just some corn flakes, please, Daphne.”
I shovel in my cereal and say good-bye to Mom, who’s finished her coffee and is up at the counter making a fresh pot. I’m at Grace’s house in five minutes. A tantalizing smell, like a bakery, drifts through the open front door and down the walk.
I hear Grace call out, “It’s Hope!”
Grace and Aunty Eve are on the porch. Aunty Eve is sitting in the middle of the couch. Grace is propped up against a pillow at one end, her bare legs draped across Aunty Eve’s lap. Aunty Eve is rubbing Grace’s skinny right leg. Aunty Eve’s hands are big like a man’s and tanned. There’s a bottle of pale purple liquid on the floor beside them.
“Good morning, Hope,” Aunty Eve says. She looks right at me and I get the feeling that there’s something else she wants to say, but she doesn’t. She picks up the bottle and pours some liquid into her hand. Over the smell of pie, I smell something new, like flowers.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Lavender oil,” Aunty Eve says. She massages Grace’s leg. Up and down, up and down. Her hands look strong and gentle at the same time.
“We’ve got four peach pies in the oven,” Grace says. “And four more baking at Mrs. Jordan’s next door.”
I sit down on the top step. “Am I too late to help?”
“Not at all,” Aunty Eve says. “We’re just taking a little break. There’s lots more to do.”
She puts the lid on the bottle of lavender oil and says, “How does that feel now, Grace? Not so achy?”
“Better,” Grace says, sitting up.
“You girls can clean the blueberries for me,” Aunty Eve says. “Thank you for coming, Hope. Many hands make light work.”
“That’s what my granny used to say!”
“Indeed.” Aunty Eve actually smiles. “Grandmothers are very wise.”
I get this sudden surprising thought that Granny and Aunty Eve would have liked each other, which doesn’t make any sense at all. Aunty Eve is mean.
• • • • •
The kitchen is way bigger than the kitchen in our apartment. There’s a big black wood stove at one end. Holy Toledo! It must be a hundred degrees in here.
It’s bright with big windows, all open wide, and rows of leafy green plants in little pots on the sills. A long counter is dusted with flour and cluttered with baking things: mixing bowls, pie plates, a bag of sugar, a sack of flour, measuring cups, and a huge wooden rolling pin.
There are four crates of blueberries on a long wooden table. Grace and I sit on chairs. We have to sort through the berries, putting them into bowls, picking out leaves and bits of sticks.
When Aunty Eve isn’t looking, we sneak blueberries. They’re fat and sweet and they kind of pop in your mouth. Scrumptious!
Grace gets bored quickly. She bangs her feet against her chair and sighs a lot. But I like it.
When all the berries are clean, Aunty Eve shows me how to weave strips of pastry across the tops of the pies. At first, my strips keep breaking, but soon I get the hang of it. Grace is already pretty good at it. She also knows how to use a fork to do something Aunty Eve calls “crimping the edges.”
One by one, the pies come out of the oven in the woodstove, brown and crusted with sugar and cinnamon, with blueberry juice oozing out the sides. There isn’t room for all the pies in the kitchen. Soon they are cooling on wire racks all over the house: in the living room, the pantry, even the bathroom!
Grace and I take some of the pies next door to bake. Mrs. Jordan is a frizzy-haired woman wearing a dressing gown, even though it’s the middle of the day! She’s on her porch reading magazines and smoking cigarettes. I think it’s unfair that she doesn’t offer to help make the pies. I bend down to pat Tiki, who is stretched out on his tummy in a patch of sun.
By two o’clock, the last pie is in the oven. Forty-three pies for the logging camps, one blueberry pie for Mrs. Jordan, and one peach pie and one blueberry pie for Grace and Aunty Eve.
Aunty Eve fixes us a tray with bread and butter, hard-boiled eggs, glasses of icy milk, and huge pieces of warm blueberry pie.
Grace says she’d like to try the peach pie too, but Aunty Eve says that two pieces of pie is gluttony. She hands Grace the tray and says, “Take this outside into the shade.”
We sit on Grace’s sun tanning blanket, which we drag into the shade of a huge leafy tree. We’re both starving and we gobble up the bread and eggs. The pie is divine, each warm, sugary, sticky, melt-in-your-mouth bite. When we’re finished, we have blue smiles and white milk moustaches.
Grace goes inside and comes back with her nail polish. She paints my toe nails bright red to match hers. We stretch our legs out, side by side, and admire the effect. Grace’s feet are narrow and dainty, mine wide and square. Then we paint our fingernails. We dangle them in the sun to dry.
The screen door bangs. Aunty Eve crosses the grass towards us.
Grace flashes her fingers at Aunty Eve. “What do you think?”
“I think,” Aunty Eve says with a sniff, “that it makes you look cheap.”
She sniffs again. “Like a chorus girl.”
I hide my hands in my lap.
Aunty Eve gives Grace a folded dollar bill. “Right now, I want you to go to Inkman’s and pick up a box of cornstarch and some raisins.”
She bends over and picks up the tray. “Mrs. Stratton has invited us for dinner tonight. So don’t dawdle. You need to have a bath and wash your hair.”
Grace groans. “It’s boring at the Strattons’. They’re old. I’ll be the only kid and there’s nothing to do there and – ”
“I’d like you to stop for the mail on your w
ay back,” Aunty Eve says.
“The mail.” Grace perks up instantly. “Sure thing.”
• • • • •
We go to the post office first. There’s no hair removal package waiting for Grace. There’s a letter, though, in a pale blue envelope with Grace’s name in very curly handwriting and little hearts in the corners.
“It’s from Louise and Janey,” Grace yelps.
She tears open the envelope and reads bits of the letter to me as we walk to Inkman’s. There’s a long part about going on a hike through a swamp, which I think sounds like a nightmare.
Grace sighs. “I wish I was there! It’s so unfair!”
At Inkman’s, Grace pays for the cornstarch and raisins. I have most of the dollar Mom gave me left. I pick out a giant jawbreaker, my favorite. I tell Grace I’ll buy her one too.
Turns out, Grace hates jawbreakers. She chooses a peppermint stick instead.
I hate peppermint.
Cripes.
Is there anything about us that’s the same?
We stand outside on the sidewalk and suck on our candy.
Grace takes her peppermint stick out of her mouth. “I think we should try out that raft.”
“Now?” It comes out kind of garbled and I spit out the jawbreaker into my hand. “I thought you had to go out for dinner.”
“I mean tomorrow. Really, really early in the morning. Before David gets up. He’ll never know.”
I can still feel that rock zinging past my cheek. “I’m not sure,” I say slowly.
“Come on.” Grace’s eyes gleam. “I want to see if it floats. It’s not fair that Louise and Janey are having all the fun. We have to have some fun, too.”
Something tells me this is a bad idea. A very bad idea. David is the fiercest boy I’ve ever met. And how can Grace be totally sure what time he gets up? What if he catches us? But I hear myself say, “Okay.”
“Get up really early and come to my house,” Grace says. “Like around six o’clock. I’ll be ready.”
I can see lots of problems. We don’t have an alarm clock. Usually Mom gets up early to go to the café and that wakes me up too. But look what happened this morning. We slept in! And I’ll have to sneak out because I think this raft might be one of those things that mothers have fits about.
My jawbreaker is turning the palm of my hand black. Before I pop it back into my mouth, I say, “I’ll try.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Goin’ to be a storm tonight,” Daphne says. “A dandy by the looks of that sky.”
I look out the café window. The sky is still blue, but far away over the mountains, black clouds are piling up.
Daphne lowers herself into a chair with a cup of coffee. Mom, Mr. Pinn, and I are eating buttermilk biscuits, crispy fried chicken, and potato salad.
“Dead in here today,” Daphne says. “Happens sometimes. Don’t matter. We’re expecting a big party for breakfast tomorrow at eight. They phoned ahead. Fred’s goin’ to make Eggs Benedict.”
“I’ll help,” Mom promises.
“Do you get bad storms on the lake?” Mr. Pinn says.
“You bet. And they can come up fast. Rain like there’s no tomorrow. And wind. Why, I remember a few years ago, waves were so high we lost six boats. Broke loose from the dock and…”
Daphne is off and running. I only half-listen.
I’m praying there’s a great big storm. A storm to beat all records. A storm that washes David’s raft clear away.
• • • • •
Mom and I leave our window open because it’s muggy. As soon as we get in bed, I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep. I don’t want to talk about Grace. Mom sighs and turns over, and in a few minutes she’s snoring.
I’m in the middle of a dream about a pie-eating contest when a crash wakes me up. Thunder! Holy Toledo! It sounds like it’s right on top of the hotel.
How can Mom sleep through that? I crawl out of bed and stumble to the bathroom. I look at Mom’s watch, which is beside the sink. Three o’clock.
I slide back under the covers. I decide to stay awake until it’s time to get up.
Each boom of thunder makes my heart jump. Gradually it sounds farther away. There’s a new sound now, coming through the open window. Pounding rain.
The next thing I know, my eyes pop open, it’s light in the room, and Mom is standing by the window, dressed.
“What time is it?” I mumble.
“Six o’clock,” Mom says. “Storm’s over. It looks like it poured.”
“Is it still raining?” I say hopefully.
“It’s stopped. There’s a bit of blue sky peeking through. But it’s windy out there. The lake is pretty choppy.”
She bends over the bed and gives me a kiss. “I’m going to the Top Notch. You go back to sleep.”
“Okay,” I say.
Somehow I don’t think a bit of wind is going to stop Grace. I count to five hundred. Then I hop out of bed and pull on my shorts, T-shirt, and running shoes.
I dodge rain puddles all the way to Grace’s house.
• • • • •
Grace is huddled on the couch on the porch, wrapped up in a patchwork quilt.
“Aunty Eve?” I say nervously.
“Fast asleep,” Grace says.
She pulls off the quilt and jumps up. “I thought you’d never get here. Let’s go!”
All the way to the beach, Grace chatters about the storm. I keep my eyes peeled for David. A person can’t be too careful. But the streets are empty.
It’s cooler by the lake and the wind is much stronger. Far out on the water, I can see white caps. But closer to shore, the water is pretty calm and I think it will be okay. It’s not like we’re going out far because we can only go as deep as the pole will reach.
I hug my arms to my chest while Grace walks around the raft, inspecting it. It’s been moved since we were here last, closer to the shore. We only have to drag it a few feet.
We take off our shoes. Grace grabs one side of the raft and I grab the other. We pull. It’s heavier than it looks and it digs into the gravel. But, inch by inch, it moves.
We shove it into the water, wading up to our knees. “It’s freezing!” I gasp.
“There are glaciers that feed into this lake,” Grace says. “Hang onto the raft so it doesn’t get away. I’ll go back for the pole.”
Grace gets the pole and lays it across the raft. We climb on, shrieking as the raft tips back and forth. We kneel, clinging with our hands to the edges of the boards like crabs. The raft sinks a tiny bit and icy water splashes over our legs.
“We’ll use the pole to keep us from going out,” Grace says. She sticks one end into the water and grunts as she pushes. The raft spins.
“You’re making us go deeper!” I say. “You’re doing it wrong.”
“Then you try,” Grace says.
We glower at each other and then we start to giggle. At that moment I think, this is perfect. I love this crazy adventure with my sister.
I get the hang of the pole pretty fast. I use it to push us along the shore. As long as you don’t mind getting wet, the raft works great. Even Grace admits that. “We should build our own raft,” she says.
The wind picks up and little waves bump against the side of the raft. I push the pole down, trying to turn us around.
The pole slips a bit and I try again, leaning into it. I almost tumble off.
The next time I push, I can’t feel bottom.
“We’re going out!” Grace says.
I jab the pole down, as far as I can, but it won’t reach. The raft is bobbing deeper and deeper.
“Bring us in!” Grace yells.
“I’m trying!” I scream.
The water is w
ay choppier out here. It’s too deep. The pole is useless. I feel sick. This is all my fault. I lay the pole across the boards and grab on tight.
“What are you doing?” Grace cries.
“We’re way too deep,” I gasp. “The pole won’t reach.”
A wave splashes over our legs. The raft is bucking like a wild horse. The wet boards are slippery. It’s hard to stay on.
We’re blowing farther and farther away from shore.
“We better jump off,” I say. “We’ll have to let the raft go.”
Grace’s face turns dead white.
“I don’t know how to swim,” she says.
I stare at Grace. I’ve never met a kid who can’t swim. “What?”
“I can’t swim.” Grace sounds terrified. “Not really. I can dog paddle a tiny bit, but my leg drags me down. I don’t like it. So I’ve just never learned.”
“Are you kidding me? You can’t swim?” I’m horrified. “Now you tell me?”
Another wave washes over the raft. My stomach lurches. I can’t believe how far away the shore looks already.
There’s a screeching sound – it’s nails popping out of the wood! Three boards at Grace’s end of the raft break loose.
She screams.
She scrabbles towards me on her tummy, her fingers trying to get a grip. I grab her arm.
The raft tilts. Another board comes partly loose, hanging by only one nail, and twisting in the choppy water.
And then one of the logs rolls away.
“It’s falling apart!” Grace shrieks.
We’re lowered into icy water up to our waists. More boards break off. We cling to the log that’s left. It’s slippery and hard to hang on to.
We lie with our stomachs across the log, gripping the edge of a board, our legs dangling in the water.
“Kick!” I say. “We’ll try to push it in.”
We kick hard. But what’s left of the raft is mostly under water now and too heavy. We can’t make it move.